Geist, p.7
Geist, page 7
Beatrice looked at him with tender sympathy. “Shit, man.”
“Dammit!” Victor punched the lamppost; he shouted in pain, still seething. “W-what’s wrong with that bastard? He stole Yuko from me.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Charles said, “but I think Edgar and Yuko go back further than you’d like to believe.” He laid a hand on Victor’s back. “Breathe, man. Breathe.”
“I know it hurts,” Beatrice said. “You weren’t ready for that.”
Victor drew a deep, ragged breath. “P…please,” he managed. “Just let me process this for a moment.” He turned to walk away. “I need to think this over—”
“Oh, hey guys.” Leng emerged from the front gates, carrying a beer and a sickly-looking corn dog. “Wouldn’t be a carnival without these, huh?” He paused. “What’s wrong?”
“Victor got his first taste of jealousy,” Charles sighed. “Poly jealousy.”
Leng rolled his eyes. “Still got a lot to learn about synthetic whores, I see.”
“Shut up,” Beatrice spat. “Yuko’s not just a whore. The sooner you act like it, the better. Who knows, you might accidentally get laid for free.”
“Calm your tiny tits,” Leng snarled. “I got his best interests at heart.”
Beatrice cracked her knuckles. “Wanna run that by me again?”
“Hey!” Charles dove between them. “Both of you. Chill. This sucks for Victor. But we got way more important things to worry about. Like, I don’t know, the killer.”
Victor let the tears flow; he needn’t hide them, not among friends.
“For real, though,” Charles said. “You might want to talk to her about this. You know how you feel? Communication is what makes healthy relationships work.” He cracked a tired smile. “Might wind up exclusive if you do. Imagine that.”
“I don’t have anything against Yuko,” Beatrice said, “but polyamory isn’t for you.”
Leng bit his lip but said nothing. Victor’s mind drifted off to happier places. Maybe there was hope for him and Yuko after all. However, deep down, he knew better.
#
The Sunset Pagoda was always a dive on the Sabbath. Above the front bar, neon signs for Victory Gin flickered with neglect. Cretins, factory workers, and thugs gathered here, united under happy hour. Alone in the corner, Victor tried to relax, but how could he? Indeed, he didn’t notice someone pulling up a seat by his side.
“Still brooding?” Leng asked. “The truth hurts, I know. Yuko’s damaged goods.”
“She’s a good person,” Victor said. “She’s just—”
“And that’s what we call denial,” Leng said. “You need to catch up on the booze if you want to cope and calm down.” He flagged down Jerry, who polished one in a series of new membership mugs. “Killshot of absinthe. Sugar’s for the weak.”
The bartender rolled his eyes, turning to Victor. “And you?”
“Another, please,” he said. “Double whiskey. No ice or chaser.”
Jerry smirked. “Don’t get in too much trouble, kid.”
Amongst the growing crowd, Victor couldn’t even hear his own thoughts until Leng spoke up. “Listen, it’s time I told you about what happened. Between me, and…you know.”
Victor turned his head; a ray of intrigue pierced his depression.
“Lady Fukuhara was a lot like Yuko,” Leng said. “Cute and charismatic. Great in bed. But more than that, she could be sweet and tender. Once you got to know her, she was a lover. We knew each other for years, actually.” He smiled sadly. “I wasn’t always a member of the Inquisition. We worked on some films together.”
“Really?” Victor asked.
“Yeah, really.” Leng’s eyes darted away, but not before Victor caught a glimmer of sorrow. “I wrote a few ‘erotic’ scripts. Got a few sponsored, produced, and even released. It was a different time. Less culture policing, you know? Fukuhara was always the lead. The people loved her, and I, of course, was no exception. That doesn’t happen often.”
Victor finished his shot. “I take it Edgar was the sponsor.”
“Impressed you figured that out,” Leng admitted. “He was also Fukuhara’s customer before I showed up. For the longest time, I thought their relationship was strictly financial, if exclusive.” He picked at his fingernails. “She must have felt something with me. Why else would she risk all that to sleep around? Still, I thought we had something special. Until Edgar gave her an ultimatum. Leave me behind, or he’d cut off all finance to the Sunset Pagoda. And then—” He slammed his fist against the counter. “God-fucking-dammit.”
“I…,” Victor managed. “I think I get it…. She chose Edgar?”
“Never found out.” A tear rolled down Leng’s cheek. “Next day, Fukuhara wound up dead. Impaled on the telephone pole. It broke us both, seeing her like that. I was already pushing pens with Brendel by then. Conscription, and all that. So, I quit filmmaking in that sense. Hit the pavement with Thaddeus to find the bastard who killed her, and then I met you.”
A long silence passed as Leng flagged over yet another round.
“There’s a damn good reason I don’t trust Yuko,” he said. “I like you a lot. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I made. ‘Cause those tore me apart.”
“I…,” Victor stuttered, “I can only imagine. It explains why you came back. Why you’re after the Dollmaker. Even now. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
Jerry passed them their shots and headed over to the gangers.
“Get drunk, and think it over sober,” Leng said.
“I’ve been doing that for far too long.”
Victor lingered long after Leng wandered off to the billiard room. Drink after drink, another hour passed as Victor’s world spun like a deranged carousel, until—
“You look like shit.” Jerry joined him, wearing a leather jacket over his suspenders. He grabbed a couple of glasses and a pitcher of cheap lager. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Absolutely not,” Victor slurred. “Here to get blacked out and make more poor life choices.” His eyes narrowed, vision blurring. “Shouldn’t you be behind the counter?”
“Carmen’s on her way to cover me,” Jerry said. “Gotta help out with karaoke. And hey, ‘least you’re honest about it. Come sing your damage away. You’re a musician, right?”
“Not a vocalist,” Victor said.
“Please. You think these jackasses care what they sound like?” Jerry pushed a song binder and a beer his way and walked off. “It’s a miracle if they remember anything.”
Victor sipped at the freebie and glanced at the stage. Under the dance lights, a lanky roadie untangled a series of cables, long hair covering his face. An electric guitar hung from his chest, resembling a ‘59 Gibson, strapped over a denim vest covered in patches of various bands and icons. One, in particular, stood out, IRONHEADE.
“All right,” Jerry’s voice blared over the bar, amplified by a beer-stained mic. “I’m your karaoke-preacher, and we’re gonna get started here at the Sunset Pagoda. Thank you all for showing up tonight. We’ve got a wonderful selection of specials and songs to sing….”
Victor shut his eyes, reminded of the bars back home. He flipped through the song lists until he scribbled his choice on a slip of staff paper and turned it in.
Tonight might not be so bad after all.
The saloon door swung open, and Edgar shambled to the bar, bearing his false smile. Propping his cane against the counter, the chocolatier reeked of brandy and bad cologne as he leaned towards the bartender. Victor tried to hide his face, masking his newfound rage.
“Salutations, my lovely Carmen. I’ll take a fée verte,” Edgar said. “The good stuff, if you please. Celebrations are in order. Opening day was a phantasmagorical success.”
She nodded and went off to search in the cellar.
Edgar sat next to Victor, beginning his monologue. “Oh, Master Roland. I must say, I have grown to love this establishment over the years. Don’t you agree? And I’m so glad to see some familiar faces. How are your friends doing? That silver-haired character and the—”
“They’re fine,” Victor snapped.
The bartender passed Edgar a dusty bottle, shot glass, and sugary spoon.
“Most capital.” The chocolatier’s smile widened. “I’m sure you’ve guessed, but my company dabbles in more than sugar and sweets. As they say, candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. I supply Yoshiwara with all manner of goodies and substances—”
“Yeah,” Victor interrupted. “I saw your sweatshop like, what—four hours ago? How do you know them? My friends, I mean. One too many bar crawls?”
Edgar’s brow furrowed. “They’re hard to mistake, my young man. Eccentric. Outlandish, even. Not to imply there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, look at me!”
Victor opened his notebook, flipping to his current composition. “How self-aware.”
“At any rate,” Edgar rambled on, “you really shouldn’t be working on your craft in public. It’s poor form, I assure you. The gangers don’t approve, and neither do I.”
That comment struck Victor on a primal level, reminded of how many frat boys and sorority sisters had come to his table, back in the Waking World, telling him that “headphones belong at home.” Victor’s fist tightened around his glass.
Your approval is entirely coincidental.
“And yet,” Edgar continued, “even I know what really troubles you.”
“Please. Enlighten me.”
“Yuko isn’t yours,” Edgar mocked, cheeks flushed. “She only survives at all because I sponsor her every single endeavor. We’re more father and daughter than lovers. However, I’ve seen this before, and you need to catch on quick, my boy.”
Victor slammed his beer onto the counter. “You’re disgusting.”
“Why?” Edgar asked. “What makes you think that? I’m merely doing what benefits the community of Yoshiwara as a whole. Besides, Yuko profits from our relationship.”
“Profits? You’re using her like some kind of meat puppet. She’s more than that. She’s like me. We understand what it feels like—”
“Don’t get all star-crossed with puppy love,” Edgar said. “Sooner or later, that jealousy will drive you to a dangerous place. Caring on principle is dandy, but never get attached.”
Time seemed to slow; Victor eyed the bouncers by the stage, who paid no heed. That almost gave him permission to turn truly venomous. “Like you and Fukuhara?”
Without warning, Edgar launched to his feet, knocking over the barstool with a clatter. He rolled up his sleeves. “Do you want to settle this, then? Like men? Fisticuffs?”
“You’re lucky this isn’t the Devil’s Hour.” Victor feigned composure. “Because I’d be wearing your testicles as earrings. One-v-one. Three-sixty-no-scope, you filthy casual.”
Edgar shot him a confused glare but threw an ill-guided punch. Victor dodged with uncanny grace, as the chocolatier was no better than a crazed leper.
Victor reached for a stray bottle when—
“No.” Someone grabbed his wrist. “Both of you. Stop.” The roadie stepped between them, brushing his bangs aside, revealing an abnormally prominent forehead lined with stitches and scars long since healed. “Never break glass. Not at the front bar.”
Edgar sneered. “I knew you’d understand, Saul—”
“Shut the fuck up, Munchausen.”
“W…what?” Edgar sputtered. “I am the financier of Yoshiwara! I can do whatever I damn well please. I can drive your whorehouse to bankruptcy on a whim. What are you, huh? You’re not even a bouncer.” His voice rose to a wretched screech. “What are you?!”
“The guy who’s gonna knock you out cold if you don’t leave.” Saul cracked his knuckles. “Got promoted to backup on karaoke nights. You threw the first punch. Just ‘cause you’re our ‘business partner’ doesn’t mean you’ve got privileges. Or that we like you.”
“Sounds like someone’s—”
“Victor, right?” Saul raised a finger. “Stay out of this.” He stepped towards Edgar, tossing his hair back and tapping his own forehead. “Do you know why I named the band Ironheade?”
“I…I’ve heard a couple of ‘concussive’ rumors.”
“Bet you have.” Saul laid both hands on his shoulders. “Pay your tab and leave. Now.”
Edgar locked eyes with his rival, drunk and indignant. However, hate smoldered within Victor. If Saul hadn’t intervened, he’d have “gone for the eyes” by now. In a tantrum, Edgar threw a handful of platinum coins at the far shelf and stormed out the door. The people went back to their drinks as dour normalcy resumed in the Sunset Pagoda.
“Has he always been so insufferable?” Victor asked.
“Yeah,” Saul replied. “Always a fuck-puppet. Just less two-faced now, I guess.”
Victor felt a twinge of satisfaction, even in his stupor. The roadie passed him, his face little more than a cubist blur of stubble and dimples punctuated by green eyes.
“That said, Leng’s not much better,” he said. “But he’s right about one thing—you’re too good for these gold diggers. Also, your song’s coming up in five. Get ready.”
“Ah,” Victor managed. “That’s right, I did sign up.”
The last thing Victor remembered was stumbling on stage and singing screams, like a true metal artist, or perhaps a chicken on the chopping block. The world may never know the truth. Regardless, warped cheers filled his ears, echoing in his mind. When Victor stumbled off the shallow steps, all faded into a spinning, starless night.
Once more, he was lost in his head.
When he regained consciousness of sorts, the Opera House was a welcome break from the beats of the Sunset Pagoda. Victor lay flat on his back, staring at the swaying chandeliers. His head swam in a quagmire of intoxication as the Impresario loomed over him from center stage. Tapping his fingers against his wheelchair’s arm, the mentor grinned.
“Rough night, I see.”
“I don’t need this,” Victor slurred.
“Your actions today have proven to me otherwise.”
Victor staggered to his feet and raised a drooping finger. “Listen here, you Pinocchio-ass-bitch. I know I’m passed out in a bathroom somewhere, and I really don’t want your prophetic bullshit. If I’m not eight-six’d tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle.”
“I’m afraid there is more to your coming struggles than drinking and harlotry.” The Impresario snapped his fingers, summoning a glass of port out of the aether. “Regardless, I have brought you here to inform you of a change in our perceived journey’s course. Adversaries await you along your current path, though such encounters need not end in death.”
“What the—? W-who are you talking about?” Victor asked.
The Impresario flipped a card from his tarot deck, revealing the Lovers Arcana—only reversed as a parody of its meaning. “I have sensed a rumination in the Symphonia Mundi. As you slowly starve from unrequited love, so too do the masses suffer famine in body and soul. However, excess clouds your judgment, and the truth remains elusive as ever.”
“Please,” Victor scoffed. “Remind me about my constant failures.”
“With pleasure,” the Impresario continued. “While I know your constant yet meandering progress shall save this world, the city folk do not share that faith. If the Far Messiah lies silent, what choice do they have but to sculpt their own idols? And what should happen when a fool appoints himself as ‘savior?’” He gritted his teeth. “You know the answer.”
“Way too drunk for this,” Victor said. “Can I go now?”
The Impresario nodded. “I wish you the best of luck in…whatever path you choose.” As the gentle sounds of the Opera House faded, Victor’s mind was engulfed by silence, drifting to awakening. “Till we meet again. Hopefully, when you’re sober.”
When Victor’s eyes jerked open, agony throbbed inside his skull and tiles chilled his flushed cheek. Sunlight crept through a grimy window, all but stinging him blind. He lay in a pool of his own discolored saliva, mustering a twitch or two, beside a cracked toilet.
“Hey.” Someone pounded on a stall door. “You awake yet, kid?”
“Technically?” Victor pulled himself upright. “What…happened?”
“Fuck you,” Jerry muttered. “If I had half a mind, I’d ban your ass. You’re lucky you pay my wages. Just keep the underwear off your head next time. Got me? That shit’s upstairs only.”
“Under-what?” Victor felt another surge of nausea. “Oh, God.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blinded by lamplight, Victor crawled his way onto a barstool as the clinking of glasses rang in his ears. A clock tower struck noon, its bells singing across the slums. Jerry passed him a pint of ice water, which he gulped down. The world was still a pulsating haze. Victor’s gaze wandered to a lopsided advertisement plastered against the wall.
SHOGUN: A Transcontinental Opera of Star-Crossed Lovers
11th Annual Production of the Sunset Pagoda
Directed, Produced, and Written by Edgar Munchausen
Victor paid the cabaret poster no heed, cradling his skull in his palms. Self-loathing took the limelight. Eventually, he stomached his brunch, trying not to dwell on Yuko or anything else for that matter. “Why is everything so bright,” he muttered, “and loud?”
“It’s called a hangover,” Jerry said.
Victor rolled his eyes. “That was rhetorical.”
“I know.” Jerry leaned on the counter. “But I’d be a saint not to give you some shit.”
“Very true.” Victor couldn’t help but smile and slid Jerry a few silver thalers. “Thanks for taking care of my dumb ass last night.”
The bartender bit at the coin. “Where’d you learn to tip, kid?”
“W…what do you mean?” Victor asked. “I thought I’d been doing okay.”
